3
Thomas shifted impatiently in his chair, waiting for Cordwainer to finish eating in the front room. He and Agytha had eaten their dinner of fish stew with turnips and cabbage, washed the bowls and cookpots, and put the leftovers outdoors in the cold box long ago. When Cordwainer finished, he planned to tell his Master twas time to order another load of firewood from the woodsman up by Galtres Forest – twas true the wood was needed, he would never lie to Cordwainer – and visit Emma on his way home. He knew Cordwainer was upset over the death of the young bailiff and worried about who the killer might be, but by all the saints, could he not finish eating and worry in his chair by the window?
Agytha’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Have you got fleas in your bed again, Thomas? You’re jumpy as a flea yourself. There’s some of the salve for the bites above stairs yet, and I’ll put rosemary and yarrow into your mattress today.”
“Nay,” said Thomas. “Tis not fleas. I just want to go out, and Master is taking forever with his meal.”
Agytha sat in the chair opposite him and placed a bowl of dried beans on the worktable between them. She was a stout middle-aged woman who had been Cordwainer’s cook and housekeeper for as long as Thomas could remember. As a child, he had at first been frightened by her sharp voice and often abrupt manner, but his fears had soon been allayed by her many acts of unsolicited – and all too often unthanked – kindness. She had become a mother to him, as Cordwainer had been a father. “Help me sort the stones from these beans,” she said. “Twill make the time pass till he calls. Where is it you want to go?”
“We need more firewood,” said Thomas. “It goes so fast in this cold.”
Agytha looked up sharply from the pile of beans she was sorting. “Tis not firewood that has you twisting and shifting like that,” she said.
Thomas flushed and looked away.
Agytha went back to her beans. “You need tell me nowt if you don’t want,” she said. “Tis plain that tis one of two things. Either you’re up to summat you shouldn’t be…” She paused and looked at Thomas with a smile. “Or tis a girl.”
Thomas groaned. He picked up a handful of beans and sorted through them with a fingertip, tossing a small stone to the floor.
“Tis a girl,” said Agytha. She gave a cackling laugh and waved a hand toward the door. “I’ll get the Master settled. Go on now, go out the back there. You’re no use to anybody in the state you’re in.” She cackled again. “Don’t forget the firewood.”
Thomas dropped the beans and rushed to put on his cloak and hat. He ran to Micklegate, over Ouse Bridge, and up Coney Street to Stonegate. At the turning to Pomeroy’s lane he stopped and waited until his breathing returned to normal. Then he walked slowly to the house. At the door, he shook his cloak to dislodge the snow and muck that clung to the hem and knocked. When Emma answered, he stood tongue-tied until she smiled. She was as beautiful as he remembered. “Thomas!” she said. “Come in.” She opened the door wide and stepped back. “Papa is not here.”
Once again, they sat close by the fire, drinking wine and talking. His words flowed easily, and they laughed together as he regaled her with stories about his life with Cordwainer. She gasped at his description of the fight at Hywel’s house and giggled at his accounts of his Master’s eccentricities. But when the bells rang for Nones, she grew serious. “Papa will be home soon, Thomas,” she said, “so you must go. He would not approve of my entertaining a manservant in the house – nay, don’t look like that! Tis only Papa. I want to see you again.” She reached out and took his hand in hers.
He gazed at their clasped hands. “Aye,” he said. “I want to see you again, too. Tis just --.”
Emma interrupted him. “Papa means to marry me to a Mercer or a wealthy Mercer’s son to expand the business since he has no son himself. I know I must do as Papa says.” She bent her head to look into his eyes, and a tear slid down her cheek. “But I shall not be able to bear it if I have no one who cares for me, no one I care for.”
Thomas smudged the tear gently with his thumb. “If you want me to, I will come back,” he said. He raised his face to hers and kissed her.
4
Nelly trudged slowly up Grope Lane through the melting snow, the icy water leaking into her shoes and freezing her toes to numbness. There had hardly been a bit of snow left on Petergate: the bailiffs had trampled and brushed and melted it till twas gone, and not a word of what they were searching for. Hell’s teeth, Piers Palmer had told her they didn’t even know what they were looking for, had been told only twas something valuable, that they would know it when they saw it. Aye, told her that right before he said she’d best get back to the stews before he put her in the stocks again for soliciting on Stonegate. How was a whore to make a living if she was barred from the folk with the most coin? Twas not like the wealthy shopkeepers would venture up Grope Lane for their pleasure, nay, they counted themselves too good for that. Nor were the only bawdy houses in the city on Grope Lane – Mistress Agnes’s house was in the Shambles, aye, where the girl Molly was killed, may God have mercy on her. There were others she knew of, fine places where the whores called themselves by other names and charged twice, even three times the going rate. Perhaps Agnes had paid off the bailiffs -- twould be the sort of thing she would do, though with only two girls left in her stable twas a wonder where she’d find the coin now. Then again, Agnes could find coin in a turnip, had always been able to, even back when she and Nelly were young maudlyns together. So twas no reason she should be chased off Stonegate. Men were the same everywhere, blaming their own base desires on the women they paid to service them, then telling the women to hide themselves away so they need not look on their shame.
Twas lively enough on Grope Lane tonight by the look of it, despite the cold and it nearing Matins already. Lights shone through shutter cracks up and down the street, and the sounds of drunken laughter vied with bladder pipes and crumhorns blaring their music out into the night. The young maudlyns would all be celebrating the news that the Welshman Owen Hywel was sitting in the King’s Jail and they need fear neither his strap nor his teeth; the men celebrating a night away from wives and responsibilities. A few more paces and she would be within doors where there was light and warmth and strong drink to soothe her weary body and maybe lift her spirits so she could earn a bit more coin before daylight. She patted the small pouch that hung around her neck, tucked between her breasts. Aye, it needed to be a bit heavier than twas if she were ever to have a house of her own like Edyth or Agnes. This late in the night the custom would not be so choosy, always wanting the young girls and passing over the more experienced women like herself. A cup of or two of strong ale and she’d swyve the night away.
A voice called to her from an alleyway to her left, and Nelly squinted into the darkness. Twas a young man by his stance, and she cackled as she turned to step towards him. Too shy to enter a bawdy house, but not too shy to freeze his ballocks off in the night. Aye, she’d warm him up, teach him what he wanted to learn as long as he had the coin to pay his tuition. She put a knowing smile on her lips and reached up to crimp the curl back into her hair. Lifting her skirts high above the slush, she followed him into the alley.
Thursday, January 11, 1273
1
Owen Hywel peered through the hazy light of his prison cell. A brazier smoked against the farthest wall, the only source of heat or light. So this was the English King’s jail. Tis not so bad, he thought. The chain around his waist was secured to an iron ring in the wall behind him, but it was long enough to allow him to move, crab-like, to the pisspot a foot or so away from his straw pallet. The guard had brought him watery ale and a half-loaf of bread, stale but not moldy. The wound in his arm ached, but it had been cleaned and bandaged. He could survive, for a while. He did not plan on staying long. Philip would get him out of here soon enough. After their last encounter, the whoreson might let him sit here for a day or so, but he would not abandon him, not while there was still a possibility of mo
ney to be made. He smiled at his foresight in buying the Sheriff’s man, dear as it had cost him.
He ate a bite of the stale bread, drank a sip of ale. Ulfar would have already moved Bronwyn and their son to the farmhouse, where they would stay safe until he could send for them. Thank God the weather had kept two of his ships from attempting the journey back to England! Once Philip had helped him escape, they could make their way to France and be free to start over. He had all the contacts he needed abroad. De Bury would interrogate him, of course, if Philip didn’t arrive first. He’d give up the pup Ulfsson, who could hardly tell the Sheriff more than he already knew, and he could save himself pain by appearing to cooperate.
But damn that bawd Agnes for putting him here! Before leaving the north, he would make the woman pay, aye, pay dearly. The priests said that all evil came from women, as the first evil had come from Eve, and that was one thing the pious fools had right. He smiled again and was slipping into a pleasantly arousing fantasy of what he might do to the bawd when the lock on the door above rattled and a short ladder clanked down into his cell. The brazier smoke swirled upward, concealing the man descending into the dark. It was not Philip nor de Bury; neither man breathed like his nose had been broken. A high-pitched giggle broke through the rhythmic breathing. God’s blood, was it a madman? Squinting to see through the haze, he could make out only a pale face atop a figure of unnatural size, stooped almost double under the low ceiling of the cell. Hywel felt a jolt of fear. The man had picked up the brazier and was carrying it towards him, his face still blurred by the smoke. The giggle broke out again. “Master did not tell Wulf there was a new prisoner,” a high voice said. “He will come soon, but we can begin the questioning now.”
“Nay, Wulf” said Hywel, striving to speak calmly. “Your Master will be angry if we do.”
Wulf paused. He looked down into the brazier, breathing heavily in the smoke. His hands were wrapped twice over in wool; still, Hywel thought, the brazier will be too hot to hold soon. One step closer, Wulf, he commanded silently, and I can kick the legs out from under you while you think about your hands.
“Nay,” Wulf decided. “Master will not be angry.”
He struck like a snake, faster than Hywel could react. Using the hot brazier to push Hywel flat on the straw, Wulf kicked his injured arm. Hywel gasped as the burning metal seared his chest and a knife of pain shot up to his shoulder; his right arm was useless. He tried to kick out, but the man was already sitting on his legs, the brazier on the floor next to him. Aiming at Wulf’s flat, broken nose, Hywel lashed out with his left fist, grunting in frustration as the man hit his arm away and seized his wrist. God’s blood, he was strong! He clenched his teeth and brought his right hand weakly up into Wulf’s face. The giggle rang out and sharp teeth closed on his fingers. The fetid stink of rotting gums filled his nostrils, laced with the smell of his own fear. He could see nothing through the haze of tears and rage and smoke, but he could feel his left hand being pulled inexorably towards the burning coals.
2
Cordwainer was making his way carefully down the narrow steps when the familiar banging sounded on the door. He stopped and waited. The aroma of toasted bread and melted cheese wafted towards him from the table. Just once he would like to break his fast before leaving the house, whatever news Rolf was bringing. Thomas emerged from the kitchen with a flagon of wine, which he set on the table before crossing to open the door. Cordwainer sighed and proceeded down the remaining steps.
“Tis another one,” Rolf announced as he stepped into the room and strode to the fireplace to warm his hands. “Frozen to the ice in an alley up Grope Lane.”
“Sit and warm yourself,” said Cordwainer. “I must break my fast before we go. Perhaps the ice will thaw in the meantime.”
Rolf accepted the cup Thomas offered, but remained standing. “Tis a gaggle of gapers around the body, trampling and shoving each other for a look,” he said and took a deep swallow.
Cordwainer dropped the bread to his plate. “Is there a bailiff there?” he asked.
“Nay, twere only me,” replied Rolf. “Been on night watch since Matins, I have, and will be going home to my bed soon. I came to fetch you as quick as I could.”
Thomas moved to the door to take their cloaks from the pegs as Cordwainer took a bite of toasted cheese. He looked up to see Rolf and Thomas staring at him. “All right,” he said wearily, swallowing and setting the bread down. “I will come now.”
The snow that had melted the day before was now frozen into sheets of ice that left all three men sliding and cursing as they made their way to Ouse Bridge. Had the bridge itself been iced over, their journey might have been impossible, but the fishmongers and shopkeepers, anxious not to lose their early customers, had doused the arch of the bridge with salt water from the incoming tide, then strewn small stones and gravel to allow firm footing on the passageway, and they crossed easily. To Cordwainer’s relief, Ousegate proved easier than Micklegate, and on Colliergate and Petergate there was neither snow nor ice at all. When Thomas commented on the disparity, Rolf shrugged. “The Sheriff had us all out searching for summat the past few days,” he said. “We moved the snow to search.”
“Is this where you moved it?” asked Cordwainer, staring down Grope Lane. Snow lay several inches deep on the sides of the frozen gutter in the middle of the street, although it had been trampled and packed down into ice along the house fronts by scores of trampling feet. A group of women in the brightly-colored clothing of maudlyns stood staring into a gap between the buildings a little less than halfway to Swinegate.
Rolf laughed. “The sun don’t get in here much,” he explained, indicating the narrowness of the lane and the overhanging roofs. “Not enough to melt the snow these past days.”
They trudged up the street, Thomas keeping a firm grip on his Master’s arm lest he fall. As they neared the huddle of women, Cordwainer could see that there were, in fact, several men among them, all looking much the worse for a night of revelry, disheveled with bloodshot eyes peering from pale faces. Cordwainer doubted that any had slept the night before. “King’s Coroner,” he announced as he shouldered his way to the front with Thomas. “Make way!”
The alley smelled of urine and rat-droppings, overlaid by a hint of decay. A sliver of light shone from between the overhanging roofs, and in it the body of a woman wearing a thin red cloak lay slumped onto her right side. Cordwainer held tight to Thomas’s arm as he slid over thick, discolored ice to kneel by her head. One of the onlookers gave a high-pitched titter and was quickly shushed. He crossed himself and reached out to push long chestnut hair streaked with grey back over her shoulder. The ends were frozen to the ice, but he could see enough to know she had been strangled. Something had cut deep into her throat, so deep that he would have thought it a knife wound, save for the bulging blue eye with its network of broken veins and the relatively small amount of blood. Tis no young maudlyn, he thought, as he examined the nest of crow’s feet by her eye, the deep circles beneath it. She must be as old as Agnes or older. He tried to turn the face into the light, but the skin stuck fast to the ice.
“We’ll need a brazier to melt this so we can move her,” said Cordwainer, reaching up and grabbing Thomas’s arm to steady himself as he stood. They made their way over the ice towards the onlookers. Across the lane a thin dark figure slouched against the door of a shuttered house. Tibb, thought Cordwainer. He remembered Agnes disputing his claim to live in her house in the Shambles and wondered if he had lodgings with a different set of maudlyns here – and if Maeve knew about it if he did.
He turned his attention back to the group huddled by the alley. “Do any of you know this woman?” he asked.
“Tis Nelly,” said a young woman with a heavily painted face now streaked by tears into two flesh-colored stripes. “I know her by her cloak.” Others in the crowd nodded and murmured assent.
“She lived here on Grope Lane?”
“Aye,” an older woman wrapped in a thick b
lack cloak replied. “I let her sleep in my kitchen or a bed if one my girls were out. She weren’t one of mine, though, old cow that she was.” She looked to be in late middle age herself, older than Cordwainer had placed Nelly. Her voice was hard, but her eyes did not have quite the cold stare he had seen in Mistress Agnes.
“Have you a brazier we could use to free her from the ice, Mistress…?”
“Edyth. Aye, you can use a brazier – Lizbeth, fetch the Coroner a brazier to melt the piss Nelly’s stuck in.” The young maudlyn who had spoken turned and ran down the lane toward a large, rambling house with a solar propped up by sagging timbers. Thomas followed her.
“When was the last time you saw her?” asked Cordwainer, “Any of you – speak up!”
The faces in front him glanced at each other. Cordwainer snorted as one after another shrugged and looked down. Feet shuffled in the snow. Finally, Mistress Edyth said, “She slept in my kitchen night before last. Left sometime after dinner, past Tierce, but not yet Sext.”
“Where might she have gone?”
Again he was met by shrugs and downturned eyes. Two of the men started to edge away from the group. Rolf moved to stand behind them. One blanched, but they stayed where they were. Edyth glanced at them and frowned. “Nelly had regular custom over by Stonegate,” she said. “I don’t know who twas, but she claimed he’d been with her for more than twenty years. Tis possible she were there.”
The Golden Crucifix: A Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mystery (Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mysteries Book 1) Page 8
